


The path to a dancer's heart.

by YurikoSPN



Series: Tales of Middle-Earth. [1]
Category: The Hobbit (1977), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mostly written from Dwalin's perspective, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurikoSPN/pseuds/YurikoSPN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Dwalin falls in love with a nomadic human dancer.</p>
<p>Based on the following imagine by ImaginexHobbit: <a href="http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/88226931748">"Imagine a young Dwalin sneaking away to Dale to catch up with a pretty human lass."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The path to a dancer's heart.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: [YurikoSPN](http://yurikospn.tumblr.com)
> 
> _Notes:_
> 
> **Usran:** khuzdul for Dancer.

_Once a year._

Once a year, during the festivities to celebrate the birthday of Lord Girion, ruler of Dale, Dwalin permits himself to ditch the whole of duties life bestows on his shoulders, leaves his lair in the core of the Lonely Mountain and skids through sharp rocks and clear gorges downhill, as sneakily as a snippy-looking dwarf his size can, all to follow the horse tracks left by a small caravan in the main road that leads to the nearby city of Men.

None of his kin knows of his annual, early evening escapades, not even his older brother; and he deems it not to be necessary, for in the next morning everything will be just as it had always been. Besides, the last fret Dwalin needs at the foremost few minutes of daylight is Balin jesting about his peculiar taste for women, especially those that, Mahal forgive him, don’t have the _slightest hint_ of a beard to begin with.

Still, he can’t help himself but desire this day to come, although Dwalin isn’t particularly fond of the jollity and feasts of Men, nor does he believe they are better than a good Dwarf revelry. 

Despite their prosperous diplomacy with the taller race, his reasons to go to Dale have no association whatsoever to Lord Girion either.

It is all because of _you_.

The _Usran_ , the dancer of the nomadic caravan and the fairest maiden of Middle Earth he had ever laid his eyes upon.

At every presentation of yours he had attended, elders whispered to one another that the path to a dancer’s heart is tortuous and veiled, that their smile cannot be taken for granted and that their intentions are sly and calculated, much like those of an untamed vixen. 

Said rumors were, for certain, entitled by the dwarf as no more but a manifestation of the puritan gibberish of menfolk, and he refused to believe whatever spurted nonsense reached his ears, except for one:

_Whoever is to claim her heart is the one she will dance with and to for the entire night._

For as long as he remembers, no man, dwarf, elf or any race in-between had been, so far, gifted with such privilege.

_“Welcome! All welcome to our Lord’s birth celebration! Eat, drink, make merry! For today we are but the same!”_ , a masculine voice cheers in the distance and he, subconsciously, runs his fingers through his Mohawk, a single scarlet rose firmly held in his right hand.

Given the chance, Dwalin would most likely shower you with gems, mithril and the finest of jewels, as any respectable dwarf would, but more often than not he had seen you refuse said gifts from other admirers, making a modest approach seem to be a better strategy.

Maybe, just maybe in this magical evening he’ll be able to muster the courage to draw nearer to you, to feel the softness of your fingertips against his as you, hopefully, accept his present.

When he finally arrives to the town centre, the celebration has already begun and his trained eyes take nothing but a second to spot your presence in the middle of the crowd, your beautiful body swirling like a spinning top to the sound of drums, clapping hands and mandolin. The sparkle of the bonfire and the starlight from above reflect in your expressive eyes; your silky hair is adorned with a couple loose braids that would look _so much better_ , were they held in place with the silver beads of his ancestry.

And your smile… _Mahal, your smile_. It gleams under the moon and fills him with a sense of purpose, a burning sensation that reassures he can do anything he wants if he can do so much as _look_ at you.

On the outside, the same hardened, fear-inducing scowl twists the corners of his mouth downwards.

On the inside, he is falling apart, smitten by your mere existence.

After what seems to be ages, you politely excuse yourself from the dancing mass to sate your thirst at the farthest fountain – temples, neck and naked shoulders peppered with sweat; and he takes the opportunity to try his luck, walking forward with heavy, yet insecure steps. 

It is all or nothing. A lifetime opportunity.

Dwalin clears his throat to catch your attention and you turn around, drying your lips with the back of your hand. Soon enough, you grace him with a grin that will fill his thoughts and dreams tonight, albeit unbeknownst to you.

“Good evening, Sir. How may I help you?”

Suddenly, the three pages long love confession he had practiced in front of the mirror several times before vanishes from his memories. It was something about your eyes, something about your hair, _something oh-so poetic about your lips_ that took days to write, but in his nervousness, he remembers it no more.

Vanquished and with low spirits, he offers you the rose with downcast eyes, mumbling in thick accent the very first thought that crosses his mind.

“…The fairest of flowers to the fairest lass.”

A gasp leaves your parted lips, seconds of awestruck silence pass by until you gingerly take the flower from his hands, tucking it securely behind your ear, among the smooth hair locks, and stare at your reflection in the water to make sure it won’t fall for the rest of the evening.

“Thank you, Sir. It is so beautiful…”

_‘No more than you, lass.’_ is his immediate consideration, but he keeps his mouth shut and just lifts his gaze instead, marveling at how your smile brightens due to such a simple gift.

“Have we met before, good Sir?”

Dwalin is quick to shake his head and reply with a gruff _‘No.’_ , which you acknowledge with a short nod.

“I see…”, you muse aloud, undo the knot tying a crimson scarf around your left wrist and wrap it around his own in two loops, meeting his flabbergasted stare and knitted eyebrows with an impish simper of your own, “’Tis so I will lose you no more in the crowd. Now come! Dance with me!”, and you drag him by his much larger hand back into the throng, resuming your dance, now properly accompanied.

Dwalin knows that whatever battles and hardships he should face in the future will never again disturb the happiness deeply lodged inside his heart, for in that summer night Mahal blessed him with the best of tokens any dwarf could ever wish for.

_You danced with him, and **only with him** , until the first peach and tangerine rays of light beamed in the horizon at sunrise._


End file.
